


Wouldn't You Prefer A Maiden Fair?

by ssstrychnine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post - A Dance With Dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1455370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssstrychnine/pseuds/ssstrychnine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That was what men wanted, wasn't it? Soft helpless women that they needed to protect?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wouldn't You Prefer A Maiden Fair?

Brienne has never had need of a mirror. When she had been young she’d flinched away so tearfully at glimpses forced by aggressive handmaidens that her father had sold theirs. They were expensive and theirs was tarnished at that, not much of a mirror but too much for a young girl growing up looking like she did. 

Her father was dead now and she is Lady of Tarth, stood in her chambers, staring hard into a mirror magicked up by one of the house servants. It is rust stained and blotchy but she is that too, having spent the best part of her life in armour and all of it _blotchy_. She tells herself she is checking the wound on her cheek and she peers at it more closely, knotted scar tissue puckering angry red. She is checking the wound on her cheek but this is something else. Jaime Lannister was to arrive that afternoon.

The maids have done what they can, have braided her thin, sun-brittle hair, and she has her dress, the blue one from King’s Landing, Jaime had complimented it once, but there is not much else that can help. The maids leave her with powders and paints when she refuses to let them touch her further and she has stared at the cosmetics for almost longer than she has the mirror. She knows the white is for her skin and the red is for her cheeks but she didn't think any would suit her. Her skin is too tanned to be made white by flour paste and lily and at least one of her cheeks is red already, but the wrong red, a red of teeth and steel not the flush of passion, and even before she was scarred Brienne did not blush prettily. 

She had been attempting civility for longer than news of Jaime’s arrival of course. Her father’s death had made fierce the desire to keep Tarth whole and her efforts extended to neat hair and dresses and delicate refusals of the suitors who wanted her money or her island. She challenged no one to a duel. She had not held more than a wooden training sword in several months. She was the Lady of Tarth. But Jaime’s visit had prompted what her maids called madness and what she privately called panic. She didn’t understand it, not really, Jaime was her friend (Jaime was her only friend), and she had never before cared what he thought of how she looked (she had, she _hadn't_ ). But she had not seen him in months and she had thought of him almost constantly and somehow he had become even more golden than he was with time. She would be soft like the ladies he knew, soft like girls in dresses with hair that held curls and smiles that dimpled. She would be soft like someone who could not fight back.

The ship arrives from Storm’s End in the late afternoon and Brienne is there to meet it. She is prim and painted, done herself with shaking hands until she found some common ground between her and the ladies she was trying to emulate. She has her blue dress and she has her hands clasped in front of her. The calluses formed through swordplay have been soothed with beeswax and the smell of it is sweet, another sort of softness appropriate for a high born lady.

Jaime is first off the ship, swaggering down the gangplank, his smile bright in the sun and visible from where Brienne is stood, back a little on firm earth, not on the wharf where the the men tie knots and haul crates. Not where she would stand for any other visitor. 

He comes closer and Brienne’s heartbeat pounds heavy in her ears. She would like a delicate maiden’s flutter, like a hand fanning a blush or a nervous giggle, but her heartbeat won’t be soft. It’s armoured footsteps or the hammering of war drums. His smile slips as he nears her and her stomach slips with it. 

“Gods Brienne, what’s been done to your face?” is his greeting. He is closer than he has been to her in more than a year, mere feet away, but he is rocking back on his heels and frowning at her like she’s a stranger. She is not a stranger, she is a lady. 

Her cheeks warm under paint and she looks down, clasps her hands tighter. She is a _lady_. 

“It is the fashion, my lord,” she offers quietly.

“ _That_ is not any fashion. You should have whoever did that to you thrown in a cell, you look like a fool in blue instead of motley” 

“It...it has been a long time, my lord,” she manages, trying to steer the conversation. “I am glad to see you are well.” He doesn't look well, or at least he looks as _un_ well as _Jaime Lannister_ has any right to. He looks sea-stained and exhausted, though it’s nothing near so bad as man she met first, the maimed scarecrow. He looks disappointed. 

“It has been a long time,” he says carefully. “Longer than I had planned.” 

“Yes,” Brienne agrees. He had told her he would come to Tarth before the turn of the moon, when they stood stained with blood and tears and trauma. He had wiped the blood from her cheek and run his fingers through her hair and told her and she had _delicately refused_ every marriage offer that found its way to her for more than a year. 

“I was held by the dragon Queen.”

“Yes,” she whispers. She had heard stories of Daenerys Targaryen, the dragon Queen, though she had not seen her herself. Her father had gone to present Tarth’s loyalty before his death and he had told Brienne of her beauty. Silver haired and violet eyed, beautiful as moonlight and soft as smoke. One of the stable hands had gone and told her she was fucking the Kingslayer. 

“I did not choose it,” Jaime says.

“No,” Brienne murmurs, her voice almost failing completely.

They walk side by side to Evenfall Hall and neither of them speak. Jaime looks more and more grim and Brienne feels less and sure that this will be the reunion she has hoped for (has dreamed of, has _feared_ ). She takes him to a small courtyard she has had set up with bread and cheese and wine and she pours wine and drinks water and he slumps onto a bench and eats. They continue not to speak and when Jaime finally looks at her his eyes are blazing.

“You’re wearing a golden hand,” he says bitterly. _He_ is wearing no hand, golden or otherwise, just a stump. 

“I’m not sure what you mean.” 

“Cersei had my golden hand made for me, a beautiful thing, so people would see the beauty and not the hand...the _lack_ of a hand. Your face...you’re drawing attention away from your scar are you not?”  >

“No I...I didn’t even think of that,” Brienne frowns. “I’m told...it is the _fashion_.” 

“Well if it’s the _fashion_ ,” Jaime mutters. “At least the dress becomes you, though I far prefer you in armour.” 

“ _Stop_ ,” Brienne hisses before she can help herself. Jaime blinks and she purses her lips, lowers her chin and her eyes and her hands which are clenched into fists. “My lord, I will show you your chamber.” 

Brienne is angry with him. Angry that he is not playing his part. She is playing soft, she _is_ soft, and he is making it harder. He is making it impossible. She wants to knock him down, draw swords with him, kiss steel with him. No. She wants to talk pretty with him and pour wine for him and be _soft_ for him. He follows her to the room she has had made up for him and neither of them speak a word. 

She leaves him to his room and he watches her go and says nothing, doesn't even smile when she fumbles her curtsy at the door, just narrows his eyes a fraction and bows his head in response, the proper reaction, Brienne is pleased. 

In her room Brienne picks at the dry skin around her fingernails and rubs in more beeswax. She thinks perhaps that proper ladies would change their clothing for dinner but she has only one nice dress and he has complimented her twice now, so she keeps it on. She looks in the mirror again, holds her gaze still when it threatens to drift, she wonders at the quantity of dresses owned by silver haired queens then looks away when her eyes get steel hard. 

In the dining room she waits for Jaime but he doesn't come. There is fish poached in butter and herbs and lemon, there are vegetables roasted in hot oil and rosemary and a small barrel of good wine and Jaime doesn't come. Brienne keeps her back straight, eats her meal alone, sends food to Jaime’s room and the rest to the servants. She sits at the table for a long time, watching the candles gutter and wondering if in this light, in the light of candles and the warmth of wood, she looks like a woman. 

She drinks too much wine. She almost never drinks wine and too much is not a lot but it makes the air feel thick against her fingers and her cheeks feel prickly with heat. She rubs at her cheeks with the back of her hand, worrying the scar tissue and smearing the cosmetics, then she rubs at them more until her skin feels pin-prick clean. Jaime hadn't liked it, a _fool_ he’d called her, she tangles her fingers through her braided hair, pulling the pins out, letting it fall limply to her shoulders. She doesn't go and find him, hair ragged and face bare, she doesn't go because it’s not for him. She glares at her beeswax soft hands and stalks out to the training yard. 

Oathkeeper has not been used since it took Stoneheart’s head. The dead blood had darkened the blade somehow and Brienne has been afraid to touch it. Afraid that she would see Catelyn Stark’s Tully blue eyes in the steel. It has been ruined for her, the best thing she owned, but she picks it up now. Her trembling fingers are cold on the night-chilled leather and she shivers from something else too. She grips it tighter lest she drop it completely and she turns her mind from a corpse living and a noose and a word and she swings the blade through the air. 

She practises long, at air and at straw men, and the blade goes through both like they are one and the same. Valyrian steel does not blunt. She practises until her blue dress is damp with sweat and the smooth calluses are red and sore, and when she thinks she might stop, the wine and her anger forgotten, Jaime is there. 

His sword is good steel but it is not Valyrian. His left hand swings strong but it is not his right. Brienne blocks every blow and strikes back like a hammer and Jaime laughs and eventually stumbles and yields. 

“Go away, Jaime,” Brienne murmurs, lowering her blade. Her blood was singing, she has not fought him in forever, she keeps her eyes lowered so he does not see it. 

“ _Jaime_? I thought it was _my lord_ now.” 

“My lord,” she sighs. “Return to your chamber, it is late.” 

“Have you some spell on you that turns you into someone else in daylight?” he asks, sheathing his sword, grinning at her winningly. “Do you need a gallant hero to save you?” 

“I need sleep,” she frowns. “And you do too, you must be weary from your journey.” 

“I am weary from this act, Brienne,” he snaps, suddenly angry. “I came here for you, not some pretence of civility.” 

“It is not _pretence_ ,” she hisses. “I am the...I am the Lady of Tarth and I am...I have...there are expectations...Jaime.” 

“Yes,” his mouth twists. “I know all about the expectations of family. I thought you stronger than that.” 

“It is not about strength,” Brienne says quietly. “It is about duty and it is about honour.” 

“You sound like a Tully,” Jaime mutters. “There is no honour in pretending to be something that you are so clearly not.” 

“I _am_ a woman,” she blurts knowing she must look far from it. A fierce expression and thin hair, a scarred face and scarred hands clutching a sword. Tears on her cheeks and a red sword and a blue dress. A _woman_. 

Jaime falls silent, scrubs his hand through his hair then grips the hilt of his sword like he is anticipating some battle. Then his hand relaxes and he relaxes and he sighs. 

“I've bathed with you, Brienne, do you think I would forget that?” he isn't smiling, he looks like the dry dark of a near storm. “You are a woman in armour and you are a woman in a gown and I would have you in either if I thought they made you equally happy.” 

“You would have me,” she whispers. “When are you to go back to the Queen?” 

“I have had enough of queens for several lifetimes,” he smiles. “Your island is very beautiful.” 

“My island,” Brienne echoes. He had touched her cheek when it was reddened with blood not safflower paint. He had run his hands through her hair unbound and wet with sweat. She had never cared before, she has been alone for too long, on an island with her thoughts. She is not a dragon queen (not a golden queen, not _Cersei_ ). She is soft and not soft. 

She is holding Oathkeeper still, she had not thought to wear the sheath, and she doesn't know if she wants to put it down or clutch it to her until Jaime has gone. She needs a weapon for this. She needs a defence more than words and something to do with her hands to stop her reaching for him. She will not take the first step, he does not deserve it. 

“I will...bid you goodnight,” she says carefully. 

“It would be a poor match for you,” he says, and he starts to stride back and forward, somehow casual and tense all at once. “You’re the heir to Tarth, I've had my title and fortune stripped from me.” 

“It has been a trying day,” she whispers, clutching the sword tighter. 

“But a marriage for love is quite rare, you might welcome it.” 

“ _Love_ ,” she squeaks, taking a step back. Finally, he looks at her, a bolt to the heart. 

“Or perhaps not. I love you, Brienne, and I think you are at least fond of me.” 

Brienne looks down, at her sword and her gown, and wonders at the madness of Lannisters. But Jaime doesn't look mad, he looks as solemn as she’s ever seen him, with clear eyes and a set mouth. He is holding his sword like she is, white knuckled and fierce. She wants to smile at him but she doesn't, she wants to tell him she loves him, but she doesn't. 

“I thought you wanted someone soft, someone more like a lady,” she says quietly, dropping her tight hold on the sword, letting it sit loose in one hand. “I thought you would come to me sooner.” 

“I know,” he shrugs, looks pained. “Daenerys is not easy to convince. She would have taken my head if Tyrion had not intervened. She is not soft, no woman I have known has been soft, they all have steel tracing their bones.” 

Brienne thinks of Catelyn Stark, _a woman’s kind of courage_ and she thinks of Sansa Stark, _Queen of the North_. She thinks of Cersei Lannister who she had never met and Daenerys Targaryen. A lion and a dragon. Brienne holds a sword in her hand. 

“No,” she agrees. “We cannot be.” 

They stand together in the dark. There's a low wall around the training yard and Brienne can see the white foam of waves against rocks and the glitter of lanterns on small fishing boats taking advantage of the clear night. Her island is beautiful. She smiles at Jaime and his smile back is hopeful and she kisses him quietly, like a sigh, like an acceptance, and he smiles wider under her lips. 

“This will be a scandal,” he murmurs. 

"It is no surprise, you are a Lannister,” she whispers back and he laughs and they kiss again, with her holding Oathbreaker and him holding her and the waves loud and her drumbeat heart louder and Tarth all around them. 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for chickren and co. and their quote challenge! this marks approximately the five thousandth time I have included 'Jaime Lannister' in italics in a fic because his name deserves to have curses behind it.


End file.
